


In The Rough

by Idealuk



Series: The Sound Of Violence [3]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Canon Divergent, Family Feels, Fluff, M/M, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 06:06:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idealuk/pseuds/Idealuk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the third installment of "The Sound Of Violence" series. Fiona finds Mickey in her kitchen, then they have a few words, then he can't get Ian to get out of bed to eat what he's made them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Rough

**Author's Note:**

> The title, and fic itself, is named after/based upon the Anna Nalick song. I feel like it would suit Fi if she were to compare their relationship to her and Jimmy's and/or Mike's. Not BETA'd. Mistakes are mine.

Fiona grumbles softly at her empty water glass on her nightstand, feebly propping herself up, her eye mask pushed up around her forehead. She vehemently throws back the sheet on her bed, vice-grips the trifling trifle, and gets up with a quiet groan. She goes and checks in on the boys’ room. Liam, Carl, and Ian are all asleep in their beds, but Ian’s not a hundred percent covered as he would be while sleeping, and Mickey’s gone. She doesn’t have much time debate whether to be pissed or relieved about his potential run-off because she begins to hear him rustling around with dishes downstairs as she gets to the staircase that leads to the kitchen.

_Great! An other probably-naked Milkovich in my kitchen! Why do my brothers keep fucking them?! Note to self: Keep Debbie away from Iggy, Colin, ... all of them. I’ll worry about Carl and Liam later._

“Where are the fuckin’ tomatoes?,” she hears him whisper to himself as she comes down, and then she remembers that they didn’t have dinner. “Ah, there they are,” Fiona stops at the third step up and just watches him.

She views the way he cuts the tomatoes (thankfully in boxers and the same top he'd been wearing earlier that day), like a guy whom thought himself how to make a sandwich, but it works.

“Pickles. Not on mine, but two for him, because he loves that salty shit. Ooh, salami!, I don’t know why he doesn’t like it. That shit's so fuckin' tasty! ... Chicken for him”. Fiona bites her lips to hold in her smile as she plays audience to her brother’s ... _fiancé_ assembling two rather large (she also figures that neither ate lunch either) sandwiches, while disemboweling her kitchen, and being ironically utterly endearing. She inconspicuously observes as he takes a slice of bread from his concoction, spreads mayo on it, realizes that there’s no more left, puts one of Ian’s bare slices on his sandwich, and give the mayoed one to Ian’s plate.

The knife that Mickey had been using gets accidentally knocked off of the table and down on to the floor in the switch.

“Fuck!,” he curses at himself a little bit too loudly, and that’s when Fiona finishes the last few steps, therefore entering the room, and making herself known.

“You really do love him, don’t you?,” she asks as he picks up the knife and wipes up the spot on the floor with a paper towel.

He stands back up, and tries to think about the question and it’s answer, but there’s ultimately nothing to think about. “He didn’t give me any choice”. It’s the only reasoning that he can give any one. “... You’re pissed it’s me, though, right?”.

She smirks at her own sense of relief upon a certain realization, and proceeds to help him put away the marginal leftovers and other sandwich-making supplies, while subsequently filling her water glass and taking a sip after the next word out of her mouth, which has Mickey looking like a crabby kicked puppy, only to refill her class back to the top before continuing. “Yeah, he tends to go after things until they’ve been his, and he’s too busy trying to see that he can ease up because who wouldn’t give that kid what he wanted ... _eventually_? You never stood a chance”.

They both think that they hear some thing coming from the stairs, so their gazes flicker over, but there’s nothing there.

Fiona looks back at Mickey unmistakably emitting sincerity through her eyes. “Honestly? I’m just happy that some one is putting him first for once”. She points to the sandwiches, and walks back to the stairs, but stops there and turns back around. “But, tell him to come down here to eat, because I don’t care if my brother is in love with you, or if you’re actually a good guy underneath, if you wake my kids, I will kill you, Milkovich”. She climbs back up the stairs, finishes her water, and goes back to bed.

Mickey never thought that he’d ever meet a family more intimidating than his own, but he was wrong, and now he’s going to be joining it?

_Fuck my life._

The drug dealer slash security guard with the apparently no-longer-so-secret heart of gold goes back upstairs to boys’ room and benevolently kicks the redhead above an exposed rib outline. He looks so goddamn peaceful, sexy, and just too flat-out fucking perfect ( _How’d I get so fuckin’ lucky in life?_ ) to disturb, but Mickey knows how bitchy he was about being hungry, so he knows that Ian will be that much crankier if he doesn’t wake him back up.

“Gallagher!,” Mickey yells in a very hushed tone, “Man, Fiona says we gotta’ eat downstairs, c’mon”. He kicks again.

Nothing.

“Firecrotch, food, let’s go!”. He shakes his ... _future husband_ at his shoulder blades.

Still nothing.

“Gal-lag-gher!”.

...

He’s seen Ian sleep before. This isn’t it. He’s too still. “... Babe?,” he capitulates in the dark beginning to wonder if this was some sort of what-stage-of-our-relationship-are-we-at test that the temporary jarhead seems to like to back-handedly push him in to, and then tells himself to never do any thing like that again. It just felt like the optimal level of wrong and it got him nowhere. Ian still wasn’t moving.

The stalky black-headed boy turns and sits on the edge of the bed, then tosses his hands in the air in not knowing what else this could be about, “Great! You get me to be all faggoty and then you play dead-to-the-world. ... Ian!”.

Sure, it was still bad timing to be flippant about death, but some thing leaves him with the suspicion that’s not why the one in the bed finally looks alive.

Ian flings himself on to his back and shoots up almost exactly like a Jack-In-A-Box, whorls around the one sitting on it, and jumps towards the door before looking back at Mickey. “Took you long enough”.

Mickey pulls a face. “Shit. You _do_ want me to be some little bitch?”. _‘Cause I fucking already seem to be one for you if you haven’t fucking noticed!_ _… When’d you put your shorts back on? Better question: Why?_  
  
Ian grins, guessing at what’s going through Mickey’s head, “No, to say my name, if you’re going to be hanging around me and my family for the next seventy-to-eighty years, I think you should learn to call me some thing that’s not a reference to my dick, or more distinguishing than my last name. Come on, Mick, let’s go eat. I’m starving and she _will_ kill us if we wake any one up”.

**Author's Note:**

> Please give love if you have it.


End file.
